


Perfect

by Nelll



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 09:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelll/pseuds/Nelll
Summary: Modrić is perfect.





	Perfect

Luka Modrić is small and serious. That’s Cristiano’s first impression of him―small, serious and unwaveringly self-confident. He doesn’t seem in the least intimidated by the bulks of his new teammates, and Cristiano just has to poke him. “See that you don’t get underfoot, kiddie.”

Modrić looks him up and down. “You better watch it, Portugal. The smallest things are the deadliest.” And he winks. He has a nice smile, after all. Cristiano feels the corners of his mouth tug up in a grin. “Cocky, aren’t we?”

“I have to be,” Modrić says earnestly, walks past Cristiano and makes a beeline for his locker. 

Modrić is fierce. He kicks hard, he makes quick decisions on the pitch; he never begrudges Gareth his reckless forays and Cristiano his occasional drama queenliness, and when he runs, he flies. 

Cristiano grabs him after he has scored a goal and feels Modrić’s heart pound madly against the ribs of his thin chest.

“Way to go, Lukita.”

“So, have I steered clear enough from your underfoot?” Modrić’s eyes are dancing. 

“Just about. Keep that up and we’ll talk about letting you come to our secret team parties.”

“You don’t have secret team parties.”

Someone claps Cristiano on the back. By the familiar mix of sweat and cologne, he recognizes Sergio Ramos. “Stop chatting, boys,” Ramos roars. “Go, go, go!”

Cristiano gives Modrić a final squeeze and lets him down. The rival’s gate is like a fortress to conquer before him, and his heart is singing. 

Modrić is committed. He’s always there when Gareth’s knee is acting up at the training, and it’s his shoulder everyone ends up crying on if they have trouble. It’s his face that Cristiano sees when Croatia plays against Portugal and that damn Rakitić tackles him to the ground and steps on his ankle for good measure. The sharp whistle pierces the air.

The world spins around Cristiano as he gingerly sits up. Modrić’s hand on his back is gentle. “You okay?” 

The pain is dull and throbbing in his left ankle. “Watch your own team, Lukita.” 

“Will do. Now, get up.” 

Cristiano grabs Modrić’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He’s supposed to win this game. To win is what he does, it’s his job, his career, his whole life. But just for one briefest moment, he thinks that if this time Portugal lost, he wouldn’t be too upset.

Modrić is affectionate. He’s also lean and wiry, Cristiano finds out pretty quick, and his sharp chin pokes Cristiano in the shoulder when he wraps his arms around him. Strictly platonically, that is. He seems to have no idea what dark thoughts roam in Cristiano’s mind. 

In a luxury coach, Modrić naps with his temple against the window, two rows of seats from Cristiano. Gareth Bale, who sits next to Modrić, seems to be napping too with his headphones on. After some time he wakes up and apparently gets bored, because he starts tickling Modrić’s neck. Modrić waves him off without opening his eyes. 

Cristiano watches that playful fight and feels familiar longing. He could carry Modrić around the pitch, pat his back and ruffle his hair, and still be a million miles away from what he wants―assuming, of course, that he knows what the hell he really wants. He isn’t used to such tangled emotions. They make his teeth ache.

Modrić is also incredibly resilient, it turns out after he hurts his thigh. It happens during his time with the national team, away from Real Madrid. Cristiano finds out from the news and doesn’t stop for one minute to consider if he can afford to miss some training sessions and go to Croatia. He just drops everything and books a ticket. 

He comes in time to watch Modrić’s painful recovery. When they aren’t in physical therapy or at the gym, they sit in small restaurants where nobody seems to recognize two football superstars, and talk. Cristiano almost forgot how it feels to be a regular person. Not that he misses it, but the experience is refreshing.

“I was actually surprised you came,” Modrić says one day when they’re taking a walk in a park not far from the hospital. Cristiano has just hung up on his trainer who threatened to throw him out of the national team if he didn’t come back _right now_. 

“What, can’t I call on a hurt teammate?” 

“Didn’t know you cared, Portugal,” Modrić smiles.

Cristiano puts an arm around his shoulders. Modrić awkwardly leans on him, giving his leg a rest.

“You better go back to your training, Cris. You don’t need to have trouble on my account.”

“That’s no trouble, and besides, I like hanging out with you.” 

“I appreciate that,” Modrić says. “But I’ll be okay. Go.”

Cristiano goes back to Portugal, trains, eats, sleeps and spends a small fortune on cell phone calls to Croatia. Modrić returns to Madrid before the beginning of the next season and seems alright if strangely pensive. He scores the decisive second goal in the game with Barcelona, but although everybody is jumping and screaming around him, he doesn’t look happy. 

Cristiano claps him on the back. “Celebrating much?”

Modrić looks up at him, and there’s something in his eyes, which gives Cristiano a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What’s wrong, Luka?”

“Nothing. Just… Will you meet me in the back hall before we go to the locker room?”

“Okay,” Cristiano says, taken aback. Modrić nods, then turns his back and walks to Rakitić who’s sitting on the pitch floor, devastated by the defeat. Modrić helps him up and gives him a hug. 

Cristiano turns away, quickly pulling on a smile. There’s suddenly a crowd on the pitch―trainers, journalists, fans, managers. People are yelling, flashing their cameras and smartphones, congratulating him, asking questions, patting his back and shoulders. Cristiano smiles at the cameras, poses for photos and tries not to be scared shitless. What the hell was that? Is Modrić pissed at him for something? They’ve been getting along quite well lately, especially after Cristiano’s visit to Croatia. Has Modrić somehow found out about his stupid, embarrassing crush?

The back hall is eerily silent and smells like fresh paint and sawdust. There’s scaffolding, and construction supplies are lying around everywhere. Long stained glass windows are covered with protective white film, and the light that seeps through is soft and milky. 

Modrić is standing at one of the windows, arms folded across his chest. He’s still wearing the same jersey and pants from the game. “You’re late,” he says with a faint smile.

“I’ve just got away from all of them!” Cristiano says defensively. “Sorry. What did you want to talk about?”

Modrić’s biting his lip. “I―” He runs his fingers through his hair, deliberately stops himself and immediately starts plucking at the neck of his jersey. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Cristiano places a cautious hand on his shoulder. “Spit it out, Lukita. What’s up?”

Modrić looks up at him again, and this time there’s grim determination in his face. Cristiano’s heart skips a bit. Modrić raises himself on his tiptoes, wraps his arms around Cristiano’s neck and kisses him viciously. For a few seconds, Cristiano can’t believe it’s really happening. Modrić is pushy, he’s kissing like he’s gonna die if he doesn’t, his small wiry frame pressed hard against Cristiano’s long body, and it’s so hot they both are going to burn.

They kiss until they’re gasping for breath.

“Wow,” Cristiano says as he pulls away. That’s all he manages to get out. His brain is offline, and he has a hard time to kickstart it to working again. 

“There,” Modrić says, smiling. “I assume you’re not disgusted, because you’re not busting my face.”

“I, yeah,” Cristiano mumbles. Modrić just stays there in the diffused light, that soft smile on his lips and his face so open and vulnerable that Cristiano can’t help himself. He grabs him and hugs him, and holds him close, and Modrić’s forehead fits right into the crook of his shoulder.

Modrić is perfect. Maybe not for everyone, but for Cristiano, he is.


End file.
